


Pour Me Another

by LillieGrey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillieGrey/pseuds/LillieGrey
Summary: "She's a regular, but not in the predictable sort of way. She comes in a couple times a week, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, but she rarely orders the same thing." Outlaw Queen Au in which Robin is a bartender and Regina is his favorite, flirtatious customer.





	1. Pour Me Another

She's a regular, but not in the predictable sort of way.  She comes in a couple times a week, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, but she rarely orders the same thing.  

 

He's made it into a sort of game; when he sees the door swing open and the distinctive click of her heels across the weathered floorboards heralds her arrival, he starts to run through the options.  Is it a gin and tonic sort of day? Dry martini with a twist? Whiskey smash, heavy on the lime?  

 

Nine times out of ten he's wrong, but that's what keeps it interesting.  The illusion that he knows her, when he really knows nothing at all. 

 

Tonight she's alone.  Her black leather jacket is speckled with rain, hair curling lightly at the ends from the moisture outside.  The air is thick with it, oppressive and muggy, but you'd never be able to tell looking at her.  She is all cool confidence, kohl rimmed eyes and heavy lashes, pulling lightly at the soft cotton of her long-sleeve shirt as she peels off her jacket, trying to cover the silvery scars she thinks he's never noticed. 

 

"What will it be tonight Milady?" he greets, eager to hear her answer as she slides onto a bar stool and grins up at him. It's definitely a tequila night, he can almost feel it in his bones. 

 

"Surprise me." 

 

Well,  _ that  _ was unexpected. 

 

"You're really something, you know?" he chuckles, biting his lip as he grabs a shaker and fills it with ice. 

 

Her face turns, lips tipping down and eyes narrowing as she leans further on the bar.  "What do you mean?" she challenges. 

 

"Nothing.  I didn't mean any offense; it was a compliment actually.  You always keep me on my toes."  

 

"Well someone should, you're entirely too relaxed.  You look like you could use a good rattling every now and then."  She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip before she pulls it between her teeth, tossing a bitten grin back at him. 

 

Oh, she is in a  _ mood  _ today.  They're toeing a line, a fine balance of flirtation and banter she only treats him to on days she comes in alone.  It makes him wonder, not for the first time, what she goes home to when she leaves here.   _ Who _ she goes home to, if anyone at all.  

 

"Was that an offer?" He quips, uncorking a bottle of Patron and sloshing a generous pour into the shaker.  Practiced hands re-cork the bottle and reach for the dry vermouth, adding a splash to the mixture then topping it all with a dash or orange bitters, before capping and giving the mixture a vigorous shake.  

 

"We'll have to see how you do with this," she nods to the martini glass he pulls from the hanging rack, watches as he wets the rim with a bit of lime then twirls it in a bit of salt. "Interesting choice." 

 

"Maybe someone needs to keep you on your toes as well." He opens the strainer, pouring the chilled liquid into the glass before sliding it into her waiting hand. 

 

"What? No garnish?" she cheeks, lifting the glass delicately by the stem. 

 

"Why bother? We both know you'd just fish it out and leave it on a napkin on the bar.” 

 

"You have been paying attention," she answers, tilting her head slightly, impressed.  

 

"I always pay attention to my regulars." He casts his eyes across the bar quickly, just to be sure no one else needs his attention, then slides his gaze back to hers when he finds no one waiting. 

 

"And here I was thinking I was special." She pouts, lips poking out slightly before she takes a tentative sip of her drink.  

 

He holds his breath, watching her eyes slip closed, buzzing an exquisite  _ hmm _ as she swallows and looks back at him through hooded lashes. 

 

"Delicious. Just what I needed." She takes another sip, then gives him a full, genuine smile.  It warms something in him, a swell of pride and satisfaction for being the one to put that expression on her face, even if for only a moment. 

 

He’s about to say something, but before he gets the chance another customer comes up to the bar and orders a pint of the draft lager and it pops the moment like a soap bubble. Her smile evaporates as she takes another sip of her drink, her usual mask firmly in place when the glass leaves her lips. And just like that they’re back to where they started, he’s just a barman and she’s just his unpredictable regular, at least until he can pour her another round and pretend to know her a little bit more. 


	2. Another Round

It's not often that she comes in on a weeknight, not alone at least, so he's surprised when she saunters into the bar on Tuesday night and slides onto her regular stool.  

 

"Well hello there, gorgeous. What can I get for you?" He smiles, leaning on the bar, hoping to catch a whiff of that perfume she's always wearing. 

 

"Water," she croaks, her voice gravely and choked instead of the smooth, seductive tone he's used to, and that's when he notices everything is  _ off _ . 

 

Her hands are shaking, fingers curling and uncurling around the edge of the bar as if she's hoping each time she peels the digits back the tremors will have stopped. Her eyes are covered with dark, wide-frame sunglasses that take up most of her face. Her usually perfectly styled hair is messy and tousled, and not in the just-out-of-bed deliberately styled way, it looks more like she's been shaken, or someone has grabbed at her hair, their fingers leaving the wavy tendrils sticking every which way. The delicate scent of her perfume is still there, sugary vanilla with the warmth of cinnamon, but there's a choking tang of copper and sweat overpowering it, something dangerous that smells of desperation and  _ fear. _

 

He turns and scoops some ice into a pint glass, filling it with cool water from the tap, setting it down on the bar in front of her. She flinches at the sound, the dull  _ thunk _ of solid glass meeting shellacked wood. She’s never been this jumpy before, at least not that he’s noticed. She’s still not looking at him, her face tipped down and away, so he slides the glass forward trying to press it into her hand, but she jerks away, raising her arm above her face as if she’s afraid he was going to hit her. 

 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he soothes, keeping his voice soft and his hands raised where she can see them. “You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

 

“I’m sorry, I know. I just…” She swallows thickly then reaches for the water, lifting it with her still twitching hands to take a drink. “I’m just a little…” she trails off with a bitter laugh, gesturing to her noticeably disheveled state.  

 

“Hold on, I’ll be right back.” 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she answers in an attempt at her usual sarcastic flirtation, her lips tipping up into a ghost of a smile that morphs into a grimace. 

 

He dries his hands quickly on one of spare towels and then pops his head in the kitchen to tell August he’s taking a break and someone needs to cover the front. On his way around the bar he snags a bottle of red he knows she likes, tucking it into the crook of his arm, and two stackable highball glasses. He keeps his voice soft and low as he circles behind her, “Are you okay to walk?” 

 

She nods in reply, sliding off the stool, wobbling a bit on unsteady ankles, one hand still wrapped around her glass of water. 

 

He places a steadying hand on the small of her back, guiding her across the floor toward the swinging door at the back. “How about we go outside, yeah? Get a bit of fresh air and quiet.” 

 

“Okay. Yeah. Sounds good.” 

 

He pushes open the door to the beer garden/smoking lounge in the back with his hip, holding it open as she staggers through, and he notices that the saunter she walked in with earlier is really more of a badly disguised limp. Luckily the outside space is mostly empty tonight, just one leather jacket-wearing smoker hunched in the back corner nursing a pint as thin grey tendrils of smoke curl into the dark winter air from his nostrils. Robin shoots him a look as he settles Regina into one of the padded chairs below the heating lamp, punching the button to switch on the dull amber glow of synthetic warmth, and he quickly stubs out his cig, gathers his pint and shuffles inside leaving Robin and Regina peacefully alone in the walled garden.

 

Robin gives her a minute to breathe, to soak in a bit of fresh air, each of her exhalations frosting and fogging in the cold. He peels the foil and uncorks the wine, pouring a generous slosh into each of the highball glasses as he watches her pull a crinkled pack of Marlboro Reds from her purse. She shakes the pack a little until one of the cigs jumps up, just a hair higher than the others and she wraps her lips around the end, liberating it from its cardboard prison. 

 

He slides one of the glasses of wine along the table, letting it land next to her glass of water. Her hands are still shaking, her thumb rolling over and over along the flint of the lighter, but she can't keep steady enough for the flame to catch. 

 

"Here, let me." His hands curl around her own and he's relieved when she's doesn't flinch away from his touch-she must be settling down a bit. He flicks a flame into life with practiced fingers, watching as the yellow-orange glow illuminates her face when she leans the tip of the cigarette in, drawing in quick, puffing breaths until the end burns red. 

 

"Thank you," she says, the words flowing out with a billow of smoke before she takes another, proper drag. This time she lets it linger, swallowing the smoke before releasing it in a soft hissing exhale of translucent white-grey. 

 

“Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Are you okay?”

 

“What do you think?” she sasses, taking another drag of her cigarette. 

 

“Can you tell me what happened? You look like… well you look…” He trails off, unsure of how to express his concern without offending her, or upsetting her further. 

 

“Like a mess?” Some of her humor is back, that biting cynicism he’s grown to love, and it lets him breathe a bit easier. 

 

“You don’t seem your usual self.” 

 

“Nice save.” She takes one final drag from her cigarette, tipping her head back and blowing the smoke up into the night sky, before stubbing it out on the terracotta ashtray on the table. “I’m sorry, I’ve taken you away from your work. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here.”

 

“Hey, you are always welcome here. You’re more than just a customer, I like to think of you as a friend.” He’d like to think of her as something  _ more  _ but now is clearly not the time for that. “And you will always be safe here. You don’t need to apologize for anything.” 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking a quick sip of her wine, licking away a bead of it that drips onto her lips from the rim of the glass. He wishes he could see her eyes; she’s still wearing those dark glasses, the thick lenses hiding their expressive honey brown depths from sight. It makes it hard to get a read on her, keeping her hidden and difficult to decipher. 

“What happened, Regina?” he asks again, hoping she’ll answer this time. 

 

She drains her wine, setting the glass down and nodding towards the bottle, a silent request for a refill. He sloshes a generous pour into her glass while she lights another cigarette. Whatever happened, it seems like she needs the comforting distraction of a few of her vices before she can bring herself to talk about it. 

 

“You wanna know what happened?” She exhales a plume of smoke around a bitter laugh. 

“I made the mistake of being in the house when my ex-husband came to collect some of his things.” 

 

“Did he do something to you? Have you called the police? Is he still at the house? Let me call the cops.” He starts to stand, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, but she stops him, cool fingers circling around his wrist. 

  
“Woah, one question at a time.” She’s suddenly remarkably calm, as if the presence of his panicked concern has flipped a switch inside of her, draining away her own tension in order to soothe his. “I’m fine. Well, not  _ fine _ exactly, but I’ve had worse. I’ll be fine.” She takes another drag of her cigarette, her eyebrows briefly tipping above the rims of her glasses as she tilts her head to the side; it’s a move that is all bitter resignation, sarcasm learned as a means of defense that at once shields her and mollifies whoever is listening. “And Leopold Blanchard is not the kind of man you call the cops on.”

 

“I don’t care who he is, if he hurt you I’m not going to let him get away with it.”

 

“Robin, this is not your fight. Let it go.” She takes a sip of her wine followed by a puff of her cigarette, clearly thinking the discussion is over. But there is no way he’s letting it end with that.  

 

“Take off your glasses,” he says, tone even and calm, leaving no room for argument. 

 

“What?”

 

“Take off your glasses. I want you to look me in the eye while you lie and tell me you’re fine one more time,” he challenges, hoping some of her usual fire will spark to life. She’s too vacant, too hollow--the contrast to her usual sparkling personality almost as disturbing as her disheveled appearance.    

“I am--” she starts, but he cuts her off before she can finish. 

 

“Fine. Yeah, I know. So take off your glasses and tell me that again.”

 

“This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here.” She presses the end of her cigarette briefly into the ashtray, standing up and letting it go before it’s fully out, a little trail of smoke rising from the still smoldering end as she grabs her bag and turns to leave. 

 

“Regina, wait.” He grabs her arm to stop her, releasing her immediately when she cries out in pain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, his brow knit in concern. 

 

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she grits through clenched teeth. 

 

“You’re clearly anything but fine. Regina, please,” he pleads, “let me see.” 

 

She sighs, all the air seeping out of her, her shoulders dropping--it makes her look small and vulnerable, two words he never would have associated with her before tonight.  “Okay,” she breathes, dropping her arms to her side, her bag dangling limply from the tips of her fingers, but her chin is lifted, staring him down from behind her dark glasses. She may be battered, but she’s obviously not broken.  

 

He steps up to her slowly, raising his hands until his fingers barely brush the sides of her face, and he lifts the glasses off and away, hissing a sharp, “ _ Son of a bitch _ ,” when he sees what she’s been hiding. 

 

The area around her left eye is swollen and mottled purple with little splashes of a sickening yellow green. There’s a cut along her temple that leads back into her hairline, crusted over with dried blood, the skin around it raised and inflamed. 

 

“I know, purple isn't really my color,” she sasses, with a watery smile.

 

“My god,” he whispers, cupping her jaw lightly, careful to keep his touch gentle as he examines her face. “We need to get you to a hospital, you could have a concussion.” 

 

“Robin, please,” she says, lifting her hand and curling her fingers into his, drawing his touch away from her battered skin. “Let it go.” 

 

“Let it go? How can you ask me to let it go when you brought this to me?” 

 

She recoils, ripping her hand from where it was still in his. 

 

“You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just going to go,” she says, stricken, reaching for her glasses where he’s set them aside on the table. 

 

“Wait, where will you go?” 

 

“Why do you care? This isn’t your problem. It was a mistake coming here. Just forget you saw me tonight.” She slides her glasses back in place and turns, pushing through the swinging door and back into the noise of the crowded bar. 

 

“Regina, wait!” He chases after her, weaving through groups of women sipping sugary cocktails and randy older men nursing their pints, trying to keep her in sight. He sees her push through the front double doors, favoring her right arm, the left curled against her side and he yells for her again. “Regina! Regina stop.” He rams into an unsuspecting customer, a splash of beer soaking both of their shoes and delaying him from following her. He apologizes quickly, telling the man he’ll get him a free refill as soon as he gets back, before rushing through the doors after Regina. 

 

She’s already made it to the corner by the time he gets outside, and he jogs to catch up with her. “Regina, wait. I’m sorry,” he pants as he circles in front of her, effectively blocking her path. “Please come back inside. If you won’t let me take you to the hospital at least let me call the police and have them check your place, make sure it’s safe for you to go home.”

  
“I don’t need your pity Robin. I just needed somewhere to kill some time. Leo’s probably long gone by now.” She ducks around him and staggers down the sidewalk. “I’ll see you later. Thanks for the wine,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving him on the corner to watch her disappear in the dark.  


	3. Her Final Round (Possible Ending 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this little verse has been rather vexing. I had two very different ideas for how to end it after 'Another Round,' so I've decided to post both of them. This is the first possible ending, the other will hopefully be posted soon. This version is rather dark, mentions of domestic abuse, violence, and character death, if you don't want to read that feel free to wait for the second ending.

The house is dark when she rounds the corner, the windows blissfully black, and the driveway is empty; Leo’s Bentley is gone. She releases a relieved sigh, air whooshing out from sore lungs, as a sob bubbles up from her chest.

He’s gone. He’s finally,  _ finally _ , gone.

She rolls her neck to the side as she unlocks the door, stretching muscles still aching from the battering they’d received a scant few hours before. Maybe she’ll take a hot bath, soak in steaming lavender-scented water until her skin shrivels like a prune and some of the sting has seeped out of her exhausted, abused limbs.  

She reaches blindly for the light-switch on the wall, kicking off her heels as she palms on the lights, but when the plastic lever clicks on nothing changes, the house stays swathed in darkness. She flips the switch again,  _ up, down, up, down, _ but nothing happens. The house is deathly still, pitch black and empty, but she has the unsettling feeling she’s not alone.

Too late she smells the sickeningly familiar sandalwood of his soap, the opium opulence of his cloying incense-like cologne and the hair raises on the back of her neck.

“You didn’t really think it would be that easy, did you, pet?” His voice is right in her ear, his sour breath washing along the back of her neck, and she  _ freezes _ .  

Every nerve in her body screams for her to run, but years of experience, muscle memory crafted from broken bones and split lips, reminds her that it’s always worse when she runs.

“You-your car,” she finally stutters out, hating herself for the fearful tremble in her voice.

“Parked two blocks away. I knew you’d never come in if it was still in the drive.” His arm circles around her from behind, wrapping across her stomach like an iron bar. He tugs, pulling her backwards until she can feel him flush against her back, every sickening inch of him pressed against her. He’s half hard, she can feel him pressing into the small of her back, and it has bile crawling up her throat; the bastard always did get off on torturing her.  She swallows thickly  around the disgust threatening to suffocate her as his other arm travels up her chest, slowly, along the curve of her breast to the valley in between, fingers dancing across her collarbone, deceptively gentle, until they finally grip around her neck, choking and unyielding.

“Leo, please,” she gasps out, hands rising to claw at his arm, trying to pry his fingers free so she can  _ breathe _ , but he just squeezes tighter, chuckling when a gasping whimper slips past her lips.

“I never let go of something that is mine, Regina. You should know that by now.” His hand unfurls from around her neck and air comes burning back into her lungs, deep coughing gasps of it that leave her wheezing and spluttering, with his arm around her waist the only thing keeping her upright. “That’s it, breathe,” he coos, the hand previously around her neck rubbing up and down her back in soothing passes until she’s calmed enough to flinch away from the unwanted touch.

She feels the hand tighten at her hip and she knows she’s made a mistake. She shouldn’t have flinched, he’ll take it as a slight and make sure she pays for it. Dearly.

“It seems I didn’t knock enough of the fight out of you earlier.” He whips her around so quickly her head spins, strong hands locking around her upper arms and she cries out when his fingers dig into the bruises they’d made mere hours before.

“I’m sorry, Leo. Please. _ I’ll be good _ ,” she whispers the last sentence, bottom lip trembling, eyes wide and pleading.

He pulls her in by the grip on her shoulders, thrusting his nose into her hair and pulling in a deep, dragging sniff, releasing a low, guttural groan in exhale. His cheek travels along her own, prickly five o’clock shadow scraping against her delicate skin until his mouth rests along her earlobe. “Run, pet. Run for your miserable life.”

He releases her and she staggers away, tripping, splaying her hand against the wall to keep herself upright. Her nails scrape along the textured wallpaper as she pushes away, running for the stairs. If she can just make it up the stairs she can lock herself in the bathroom and call for help. Just a few more feet…

As she bolts up the steps, one hand wrapped around the banister to push off and propel her forward, his fingers wraps around the base of her ankle, yanking her back. The world is upended, toppling round in a gut twisting spiral and she’s falling, falling, and…

**...**

Robin’s distracted for the rest of his shift; his eyes anxiously wandering to the doors every time they clatter open, hoping she’ll come back.

She doesn’t.

He still has her address tucked into his wallet, her delicate handwriting scrawled across a cocktail napkin that she’d pushed across the bar to him the first night she came in. He hadn’t taken her up on her invitation that night (he never does when customers pass him phone numbers or hotel keys), but for some reason he’d kept it. He’d folded it into a tiny square and tucked it safely away, and tonight as he tugs on his jacket and heads into the after-midnight cold, he pulls it out and punches the address into the GPS on his phone.

It’s not far, just about 10 minutes away. He just wants to walk by, see if her lights are on, if everything is okay. He just wants to check on her so the gnawing pit in his stomach that something is horribly wrong, that he made a mistake letting her walk away, will dissipate.  

She’s  _ fine _ , he knows she’s fine. She insisted upon it multiple times, but he just wants to be sure.

He hears the chaos long before he sees it. Sound travels at this time of night; rustling cans can be heard for blocks, whispered voices carry on the wind and tickle your ear, so the dull murmur of voices puts him on edge, has him walking a little bit faster toward the direction of her house.

When he rounds the corner on her street he’s greeted with the blinding glare of flashing blue lights. People are gathered around on the sidewalk, the filtered yellow of the streetlamps and too-bright white headlights from the police cars and ambulance parked along the street making their shadows stretch along the pavement towards his feet.

That gnawing in his stomach turns into a stone.

He shuffles toward the scene, knowing what he’s going to see before he gets there, but needing to know all the same. As he wanders closer his eyes adjust and everything becomes clearer, yellow police tape and shattered glass, the area around the exterior of one of the houses is blocked off, the front door a gaping hole with splintered glass teeth hanging from the frame. It looks like someone was thrown through it, but the solid black number 17 still stands above the doorway. _ Her address _ .

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

The crowd parts and he pushes through to the edge of the tape, and there she is, bathed in the fluorescent spotlight of a crime scene, broken and crumpled on the sidewalk. There are sparkling shards in her hair, razor thin cuts along her skin oozing red that leaks into a puddle around her body. But her eyes are closed, her face slack and soft, almost peaceful, despite the angry purple bruise darkening half of her beautiful face.

This is his fault, he should have walked her home. He never should have let her leave. But at least now she will never hurt again. or laugh or smile, or lean on his bar and order a drink in that sultry low voice of hers,  _ oh God _ , she’s gone.  _ She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone. And he will never forgive his mistake. _

 


	4. Round Three (possible ending 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the alternate, slightly less angsty ending. Hope you all enjoy!

Robin's distracted for the rest of his shift; his eyes anxiously wandering to the doors every time they clatter open, hoping she'll come back. 

 

She doesn't.

 

“That’s the hundredth time you’ve looked at those damn doors in the last hour, she’s not coming back,” August deadpans from beside him. “Clock out. Go after her.” 

 

“You sure? I don’t want to leave you alone, and it’s not like she and I are, you know,” Robin gestures, hoping his movements will convey what he can’t quite put into words. 

 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean ya don’t wanna be.” August raises an eyebrow, his lips spreading into a suggestive smirk. “It’s dead in here anyway, and your sour mood is scaring off the few customers we have.” 

 

Robin shoots him a look, and August mumbles a quick,  _ Sorry, _ with raised hands and rolled eyes. “No, you’re right,” Robin sighs, running a restless hand through his sandy blond hair. “Sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about her. She was so shook up, and I just bollocked it all up.” 

 

August walks over and grabs Robin’s brown suede jacket off the line of hooks on the side wall and tosses it roughly into the center of his chest. “Get out of here. Go. Make sure our girl is okay, yeah?” 

 

Robin doesn’t argue again; he signs out at the register and shrugs on his jacket, pushing through the double-doored exit at a brisk jog. He turns, not quite sure of where he’s going, he’s never seen her outside the context of the bar, has no idea where to begin looking, but he doesn’t have to wonder for long. 

 

“Took you long enough.” Her voice washes over him and he feels the tension of the last few hours drain away. 

 

He turns and there she is, cheeks cherry red from the cold, sucking on a cigarette as she leans against the wall behind him, one knee bent so her heel rests against the stucco, and for the first time since he watched her leave, he feels like he can breathe. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to march right over and wrap her in his arms, tuck her into the warmth of his jacket and just savor the fact that she is safe.  

 

“You’re here,” he pants, breath fogging in the cold air. 

 

“No, I’m a figment of your imagination.” She takes a final drag off her cigarette and then flicks it in an orange-glowing arc into the street where it hits a puddle and fizzles out with a satisfying  _ hiss. _

 

“How long have you been out here?” 

She shrugs, scuffing the toe of one of her heeled ankle boots along the sidewalk, refusing to make eye contact. “An hour. Maybe two.” 

 

“Jesus, woman, why didn’t you come inside? You must be frozen! I’ve been out here five minutes and I’m already too cold,” he grouses, hating himself when she flinches at his tone. 

 

“Not my fault you’ve got thin English blood and you can’t take a bit of weather,” she sasses back, her mask sliding perfectly in place in an attempt to cover how jumpy she still is. 

 

“Touché, m’lady,” he concedes, making sure he keeps his pitch even and calm, pleased when she smiles in response. It tugs at his conscience, reminds him of what an utter arsehole he’d been when they’d talked just hours before. “About earlier,” he starts, but she stops him with a raised hand before he can get any further. 

 

“Can we not?” She grimaces, scrunching her nose in a way that he usually finds adorable, but he knows must pull at her bruised skin. “I’d rather not have some deep, heartfelt discussion about all of this. My day has been shitty enough as is.” 

 

“Fair enough. Can I at least ask one thing?” 

 

“If you must.”

 

“Why did you come back if you didn’t want to come inside?” 

 

He watches indecision filter over her face, her eyes flick back and forth, flitting over his features as if searching for some kind of answer. She must find whatever she’s looking for because she tilts her head with a wry grin and says, “When I got home Leo’s car was still out front and going inside seemed like an unwise decision. So I came back to the only place I feel safe.”

 

“Here?”

 

“Yeah,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Stupid, I know.”  

 

“Hey,” he says, ducking down until he can meet her eyes. “You may be a lot of things, Regina, but stupid is not one of them. Now can we please go somewhere and get out of the bloody cold?”

 

“Okay,” she replies with a low chuckle and a lip-bitten smile. 

 

He shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders saying, “Come on, my place is a couple blocks away, this should help warm you up till we get there.”  She mumbles a quick  _ thank you _ and follows him as he starts walking towards his apartment. He tucks his hands securely in his armpits, to keep them warm he reasons with himself, not at all to resist the itching desire to wrap his arm around her shoulders as she walks silently by his side. 

 

**…**

 

He wasn’t expecting company when he left in a rush for work earlier that night, so he’s a bit ashamed to unlock the door and usher her into his small, one-bedroom flat. There’s an empty cereal bowl on the counter, the spoon clattered beside it sticky with residual milk and sugar; a half-drunk cup of tea that has turned an unfortunate shade of grey from sitting in the open air for a little longer than is sanitary; and random bits of clothing scattered along the floor. It’s not terrible, it’s been worse, but it is by no means tidy. 

 

“I’m sorry about the mess,” he says, quickly gathering up his dirty laundry and shoving it in the hamper just inside the open bedroom door. “Make yourself at home.” 

 

She lingers in the hallway, nervously chewing on the cuticle of her thumbnail. “What if he doesn’t leave?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Leo. What if he stays there all night?”

 

“Why don’t you just stay here tonight? It’s late already and I promise you’ll be perfectly safe here, on my honor as a gentleman,” he vows, hands raised.

 

“And if I want you to be a little less...gentlemanly?” she drawls, with the raise of a suggestive eyebrow. She lets her bag slide off of her shoulder and drop to the ground, her jacket follows after in a puddle of leather. 

 

He swallows thickly as she saunters up to him, reaching up toy with the collar of his shirt, knuckles barely grazing against the planes of his chest with each teasing movement up and down along the fabric. “Regina,” he leads, wishing his voice didn’t sound so husky, his body automatically responding to her proximity despite his brain shouting at him that it’s not the right time.

 

“ _ Shhh _ ,” she coos, “How else am I supposed to thank you?” She lifts up on her tip-toes, lips deliciously parted, eyes slipping closed as he starts to lean in, but then her words sink in and the fog of arousal dulling his brain clears like a summer day after a storm. 

 

“Stop,” he says gently, his fingers curling around her own and pulling them away from his chest. “Regina, you don’t owe me anything, especially not  _ what  _ you were just trying to offer.” He drops her hands and she immediately crosses her arms her chest, tugging at the ends of her sleeves until her fingers disappear from sight. “You’ve had a rough night. I’m more than happy just being a safe place for you to land for the night, we can deal with what to do next in the morning.”  

 

“Okay, sure.” Her voice sounds hollow, distant, and he’s not sure if it was his slight rejection, or if the events of her evening are just catching up with her. Either way, he’s not about to let her slip into herself, not when he’s right here willing to help. 

 

“Are you hungry? Can I fix you something to eat?” he asks, hoping to break her out of the dreary mood she’s slipping into.  

  
“You can cook?” she sasses, casting her eyes pointedly to the empty cereal bowls still littering his countertops. 

 

“Yes. Sort of. Okay, not really,” he admits. “But I can do a mean takeout order.” He grins, with what he hopes is a charming shrug of his shoulders. 

 

She laughs, a warm, tinkling chuckle that from another other woman he might call a giggle, but Regina Mills is not the type of woman who giggles. “No. Thank you. I think I’m good,” she replies, lips spread in what looks like a genuine smile for the first time all evening. 

 

“Come on then, I’ll get you some clothes you can sleep in.” 

 

She follows him into the bedroom while he fishes a pair of drawstring sweats she should be able to tie tight enough to stay on her trim waist and a soft cotton t-shirt from one of his drawers. 

 

“The bathroom is just through there,” he points to the door on the opposite side of the bedroom. “There are washcloths and towels in the linen closet if you want to shower or wash your face or anything.” 

 

“Thank you.” She grabs the folded clothes from his hands and heads toward the bathroom, stopping with one hand on the doorframe, turning her upper body back towards him slightly to say,  “Really, Robin, I don’t know what would have happened if… just thank you.” 

 

“No problem,” he smiles, walking around the end of the bed, grabbing his pillow from the right side.

 

“What are you doing?” she asks, still watching him from the bathroom door. 

 

“I’m grabbing my pillow so I can make up the couch.” 

 

“Robin, I’m not taking your bed.” She turns around fully, leaning against the doorjamb, staring him down. 

 

“Yes. You are.” 

 

“I’ve already imposed upon your evening, I’m not going to exile you to a night on the couch too. You’ve already been more generous than I deserve, really, I’ll take the couch.” 

 

“This is not up for negotiation, my house, my rules.” He shrugs, ending the discussion with what he hopes is a playful finality. 

 

She flinches, visibly  _ flinches _ as if his words have smacked her across the face and  _ oh bollocks _ , her ex must have said something like that to her or something because now she’s looking at him like she doesn’t know whether to run or kick his ass. 

 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry, I’m cocking this all up.” He rubs the back of his neck with this right hand, his pillow dangling limply from his left. 

 

“No, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m just going to hop in the shower, I’ll be out in a minute.” She slips into the bathroom, the door sliding shut behind her with a quiet click, the hollow resignation in her tone only serving to make him feel like even more of a tosser. 

 

He hears the sound of the shower swishing on a moment later, and he changes quickly into his own pajamas, a pair of loose fitted plaid pants and a matching dark blue t-shirt. She’ll probably be a few minutes, he thinks, so he busies himself with tucking a sheet around the couch cushions, dragging the blanket from the sofa down to rest on top, that should be fine for one night. Then he gathers all the dirty dishes and deposits them in the sink before grabbing two clean glasses from the cabinet and filling them with cool water, one he leaves on the coffee table for himself and the other he takes and leaves on the bedside table for her. 

 

He’s just finished gathering all the dirty clothes scattered around the apartment that he missed earlier when she emerges from the bathroom. She’s decided to forgo the sweatpants, opting just his t-shirt instead, the soft cotton fabric dwarfing her frame, the hem resting about mid thigh. Her face is scrubbed of makeup, the angry bruise looking even more menacing without the layer of foundation to dull the discoloration. Ribbons of purple circle her upper arms like finger-shaped petals painfully blooming beneath her skin. She looks small, delicate and he’s suddenly overwhelmed with the fierce desire to wrap her in his arms and protect her from anything outside this room, coupled with the urge to beat whoever did this to her to a bloody pulp. 

 

“Thanks for the t-shirt, but the pants were a bit big,” she smirks, handing him the folded sweats. 

 

“No problem. Will you be warm enough in that? I can get you a hoodie or something.” 

 

“This is fine, thanks.”

 

“I left you a glass of water on the table, I’ll just be in the other room if you need anything else.” He shoves his sweats back in the drawer they came from and then turns to pad back into the livingroom. 

 

“Robin?” 

 

Her voice stops him and he turns to see her, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the t-shirt, twisting the cotton round and around her fingers only to release the bunched up fabric and start the pattern all over again. “Yeah?” he asks, when she doesn’t continue speaking. 

 

“Could you,” she takes a deep breath in then looks up, tucking a shower-dampened lock of hair behind her ear. “Could you stay with me? Don’t worry, I won’t try anything; your gentlemanly virtue is safe,” she quips, a bit of her signature snark bubbling back up, but it fades, her face softening. “I just… I just don’t want to be alone.” The last few words tumble out in a raw whisper, she looks so vulnerable, barefoot and bruised in the middle of his bedroom, her whiskey brown eyes pleading with him to stay. 

 

How can he possibly say no? 

 

“Just let me grab my pillow.” He pads into the living room, looking down the hall to double check that the door is locked and the chain is on, before collecting his pillow from the couch, turning off the kitchen and living room lights before heading back to his room. 

 

She’s already curled up on the left side of the bed, burrowed beneath the covers with one hand tucked beneath her pillow, so he flips off the overhead light and makes his way to the bed in the dark. He tosses his pillow lightly on his side of the bed before climbing under the covers, unsure whether he should turn away from her to give her some space or turn towards her so she knows he’s there; he ends up laying awkwardly on his back, afraid if he moves too much he’ll disturb her. 

 

“I don’t bite, you know,” she chuckles. “I’m not going to bolt if you accidentally brush against me or kick me in your sleep, just make yourself comfortable.” The last world is swallowed by a yawn as she snuggles further into her pillow. 

 

He releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding, relaxing into the mattress, flipping onto his side so he’s facing her back, his eyes barely able to make out the slope of her shoulder and the elegant dip of her neck in the dark as he drifts off to sleep. 

 

At some point in night they end up wrapped around each other, their sleeping bodies seeking the comfort of contact their waking selves aren’t quite ready to accept. 

 

 


End file.
